CHAPTER 23 / SHORT TAKEOFF or: The Art of Rotating into a Lawsuit

It’s high noon behind your uncle’s pig farm. The air is thick with manure and misplaced ambition. You're parked dead centre in the middle of the "runway"—a generous word for the 500-foot grass scar carved between a barbed-wire fence and a barn that looks like it’s storing ghosts. Behind you? Enough room to backtrack to Canada. But no—you’ve chosen the hero's launchpad: Right here. Right now. Because in your head, this isn’t a field. This is a proving ground. A baptism by torque and testosterone. The first step in your transformation from mere pilot…to YouTube legend / cautionary tale / statistic.

At the far end of the runway, nestled beneath a brooding oak tree that’s seen better pilots die trying,
sits the barn.
Not the charming, red-painted Hallmark type.
No.
This one’s dark. Sagging. Slightly evil.
It looks at you like it’s already been hit—and wouldn’t mind another.

“Come on, chicken,” it whispers. “Try and clear me…”

And you, dripping in hubris and oil-stained bravado like Ironman in flip-flops, whisper back:

“Watch this…”

Because you’ve seen the videos.
We all have.
That smug bastard in Valdez who levitates in 14 feet, riding ground effect like it owes him child support.
He takes off in less time than it takes you to overestimate yourself.

And you think:

“That’ll be me.”

Spoiler:
It won’t.

He wasn’t flying a Super Cub.
He was flying a carbon-fiber hallucination with nothing in it but dreams and a prayer.

No fuel.
No passenger.
No belly pod.
No trauma kit designed for Armageddon.
No baggage—emotional or otherwise.

You, however?

You’re loaded.
Loaded like a Viking funeral barge.
Full tanks.
A belly pod packed tighter than a prepper's basement.
Six knives.
Your vinyl collection.

An entire Costco run shoved into the baggage area.
A GoPro you forgot to turn on.
And a survival kit that screams: “I plan to crash and then live long enough to write a memoir.”

Your ego packed itself. Without asking.

So yeah—you need speed.
But speed needs runway.
And runway is finite.
Unlike your confidence, which is currently expanding faster than your airspeed.

This is it.
This is where torque meets delusion.
Where horsepower collides with hope.
Where the aircraft either lifts…

or becomes part of the barn’s permanent collection.

Let’s face it:
You can’t have both.
It’s either short takeoff or pants.
You want performance? Ditch the luggage.
You want dignity? Take the long runway and hope nobody’s watching.

Because if you're loaded like a traveling circus, or your Cub resembles an Amazon Prime van on Christmas Eve,
Valdez isn’t happening.
You’re not levitating in 14 feet.
You’re sinking into shame before rotation.

It’s like trying a short landing on glassy water—on floats—while your ex yells advice from the shoreline.

It can’t be done. You’ll just skip, scream, and sink.

So let’s talk about what actually matters:

That herd of cows. The ones standing at the end of your “runway,” watching in silent judgment.
They’ve seen things.
They know what’s coming.

Forget the barn. It’s not worth dying for.
Focus on clearing the livestock.
They’re innocent.
You aren’t.

First and foremost:
Do not shorten the field by wasting what’s behind you.
Not during training. Not ever.
Taxi back. All the way.
Imagine your runway is 100 feet long.
But don’t make it so.

I won’t bore you with the ancient mantras:

“No fuel left on the ground, no altitude above you, no runway behind…”
We get it.
We’ve seen the poster.
But if you choose to ignore it—you’d better be packed light and kissed by fate.

Now…
let’s talk about some of the more “creative” strategies for short-field madness:

There’s a particularly stupid one that goes like this:

“Make a tight turn on the grass, accelerate through the arc, and slingshot onto the strip like Jeremy Clarkson drifting a Formula 1 Car  through an Amazon warehouse.”

Yes, someone actually suggested that.
And in theory? It might work. In a simulation. Or in the opening scene of your aviation-themed funeral. Unless your logbook is soaked in duct tape and near-death experiences—this manoeuvre isn’t yours.It belongs to legends, maniacs, and Colt Seavers.
You?
You’ll just pirouette into a moose.

Because while it might gain you three extra knots, it also might gain you a prop strike, a ground loop, and a front-row seat in your uncle’s guesthouse living room, still strapped to the Cub.

Short field technique is not where you improvise. It’s where you obey physics like it’s holding a gun to your face.

The following stunt doesn’t apply to your skill level either.
But you read it somewhere—probably between a forum post titled “Bush Flying for Alpha Males” and an ad for magnetic bracelets that cure torque-induced instability.

“Charge down the runway like a man possessed, and just before rotation, pull the flap handle mid-sprint. Boom. Instant lift. Like stepping barefoot on a cactus—except airborne.”

Sounds badass. Right?
Makes perfect sense.
In your fantasy.  

Or if you're Evel Knievel’s illegitimate nephew raised by gyroscopic forces in a hangar.

But you?
Let’s do a reality check.

Do you actually know where the flap handle is?
Exactly where?
Could you grab it blind, without hesitation, while accelerating, swerving, and counting how many fence posts are left between you and federal charges?

Or are you confusing it with the bent aluminium leg of a camping chair stuffed next to the survival kit you’ll never open because you won’t survive long enough to unzip it?

Let’s play this out.

You’re on two wheels.
Doing 30 knots.
Your airspeed needle is twitching like your last relationship.
And you decide: “Now's the time.”

Your hand dives under the seat.
You’re not looking—because you were told never to look away.
So you grab... something.
Maybe it’s the flap lever.
Maybe it’s the fire extinguisher.
Maybe it’s a scorpion someone packed as an emotional support animal.

Either way, the moment your eyes leave the windscreen—you’re done.

Because the Cub doesn’t tolerate neglect.
It doesn’t forgive multitasking.
And it sure as hell won’t wait while you fumble around like a raccoon in a glovebox.

The nose yaws left.
The tail swings.
Your flap lever remains unpulled.
But your destiny?
It’s already airborne—without you—heading straight for the goat shed.

So no, rookie.
Don’t yank flaps mid-roll.
Don’t try to be clever.
Don’t improvise your way into the accident database.

This isn’t performance.
It’s a controlled demolition with paperwork.

Ok, Captain America.
That’ll do for today.
Go polish your ego and ice your rudder foot.

Tomorrow, we’ll cover how to actually do a short field takeoff—
without murdering an innocent family of cows or becoming a hood ornament for a haunted barn.